


The Dream

by Athena (Jeslieness)



Category: Clive Barker's Undying
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:47:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22343548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jeslieness/pseuds/Athena
Summary: "The Journal of Jeremiah" discussed a nightmare he had about his siblings after the end of the war. If pressed for detail--what might Jeremiah have said?
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	The Dream

**Author's Note:**

> I published this on the Standing Stones fansite in 2004, and am reposting it here unedited--no matter how badly I want to spruce it up. 
> 
> The poem Bethany reads from is "Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude", by Percy Bysshe Shelley.
> 
> My love to Undying fandom, always!

He had been surprised to find, in the days after he awakened from his “coma”, that he still dreamed. He had been even more surprised to find that his dreams were usually...happy. If he would dream, he had expected to dream solely of the battlefields he had so recently fought on and the death that had surrounded him, of the Standing Stones and that book. Some nights he wasn’t disappointed. Yet most nights he found himself dreaming of fond memories and happier times with astonishing clarity.

Jeremiah had not expected to dream on this night of all others. It was New Year’s Eve and so he had taken his medication with several glasses of champagne. He had expected that potent combination to send him into a sound, dreamless sleep and yet he abruptly found himself standing in one of the many corridors of Covenant Estate, standing outside a closed door carved from thick, dark wood.

He knew instantly that he was dreaming, for his movements were fluid, his body free of pain. His true existence was no longer anything like that, was now actually so painful that regardless of what came next he would consider this a good dream. He wasn’t quite sure which was worse, that he had once taken his pain-free existence for granted or that any dream in which he regained it was automatically a good one. And, looking at the door he thought he was meant to go through, he supposed it wasn’t the time to ask such questions.

Stretching out a hand, Jeremiah pressed down on the golden doorknob and the door slid open silently, permitting him entrance into a large, rather bare room. The far wall had been completely given to long windows, rounded at the tops, through which a pale winter sun shone. In the very center of the room stood a long table with an overstuffed armchair drawn up to it.

The armchair contained a young girl, wearing a long dark blue dress covered by a pinafore that seemed to have begun the day white but had already accumulated some interesting stains. As the girl leaned on the table, seemingly unaware of his presence and completely intent on whatever book laid open before her, she pulled absently on one of the dark ribbons that tied off her long red braids.

He did not need to see her face to recognize her; her red hair immediately identified her as Bethany, his younger sister and, if truth be told, his favorite sibling. It was the memory he did not recognize. _When was this? It seems familiar, but I really don’t remember...._ He studied his sister closely, moving along the wall to stand opposite of her, searching for some clue as to what this memory was. _It’s winter, and she looks about ten. She hasn’t yet broken the habit of tugging her hair ribbons. But she did after we went to the Standing Stones. The very same night, it had seemed. This must be only weeks--perhaps days--before._

A series of loud thumps progressed along the corridor outside, breaking Jeremiah from his thoughts, and solidified into two sets of running footsteps and some amused laughter.

“I’m going to catch you and then get Lizbeth to tickle you until you tell me what you did with my mittens!” Jeremiah’s brother Aaron threatened good-naturedly.

“You have to catch me first!” Ambrose, the youngest of the brothers, called back. Both sets of footsteps picked up speed, disappeared around a corner, and thundered off into the distance. Bethany looked up and shook her head affectionately, unable to resist a smile.

“Poor Aaron,” she murmured. “Once he finally catches Ambrose, he’ll probably learn that Jeremiah has the mittens now, and then he’ll have to chase Jeremiah through the house to get them back. Those three!” With another fond shake of her head she returned her attention to the book, pulling at her ribbons again as she resumed reading.

He had indeed been the one with the mittens, Jeremiah recalled with a soft laugh, though it had taken Aaron another quarter of an hour to learn that, and perhaps twenty more minutes to arm himself with pillows and find Jeremiah hiding in the room adjoining this one. The matter had been concluded with the grandest pillow fight Ireland had ever seen, which of course Bethany, Ambrose, and Lizbeth were quick to join, and then the five siblings had sprawled into a laughing, exhausted heap on the floor. Just thinking of it made Jeremiah laugh, and then abruptly sober. _My poor family...they had no idea of what was about to happen. They thought they were safe here._

The door flew open and a small blur of pink and yellow scampered into the room and skidded to a halt, revealing itself to be Lizbeth Covenant. At the very last minute, the little girl remembered and snatched the door, easing it quietly closed. Then she paused and tried fruitlessly to straighten the lopsided pink ribbon holding back her blond hair.

Lizbeth wore a long dress the color of her ribbon and a ruffled pinafore, and pressed to her side was a thick, worn book. She waited patiently until Bethany turned the page she had been reading, lifted her eyes to Lizbeth, and gave her a small but warm smile. Taking this as encouragement the child skipped across the room and climbed into Bethany’s lap. “Read to me, Bethany!”

Bethany looked ruefully at her own book and then down at Lizbeth, who if she was encouraged would likely hang around for hours asking questions and pleading for more stories. It had always been difficult for anyone to say no to the baby, as Jeremiah knew well from experience, but before the ritual Bethany had found it nearly impossible. Lizbeth had appointed herself Bethany’s pet at a very young age and completely adored her sister. Understandably, Bethany found it difficult to enforce boundaries in the face of such admiration.

“Come now,” she said in a voice that struggled to be stern and fell far short, “you’re almost six years old. You should be sitting next to me reading your own books.”

“I like it better when you read them,” Lizbeth replied hopefully, and Bethany finally smiled and leaned back in her chair. Sensing victory, Lizbeth wriggled into a more comfortable position and rested her head on her sister’s shoulder.

“What’ll it be today, then?” Bethany asked, slipping her arms around Lizbeth’s sides to open the book on her younger sister’s lap.

“The one you read last night!” Lizbeth directed.

Bethany chuckled softly. “And the night before that, and the morning before that, and the night before that?”

Lizbeth nodded solemnly.

“Oh, very well.” Bethany flipped quickly through the book, locating the requested section without difficulty, then smoothed the pages flat and began to read. “Earth, Ocean, Air, beloved brotherhood! If our great Mother has imbued my soul with aught of natural piety to feel....”

Lizbeth, entranced, was very still. Jeremiah looked at his sisters affectionately and then closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, letting the winter sun envelop him while Bethany gave the words life.

“Favor my solemn song, for I have loved thee ever and thee only; I have watched thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps, and my heart ever gazes upon the depths of thy deep mysteries. I have made my bed in charnels and on coffins where black death keeps records of trophies won from thee, hoping to still these obstinate questionings of thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost, thy messenger, to offer up the tale of what we are. In lone and silent hours, where night makes a weird sound of its own stillness, like an inspired and desperate alchemist staking his life on some dark hope, have I mixed awful talk and asking looks with my most innocent love, until strange tears, uniting with those breathless kisses, made such magic as compels the charmed night to render up thy charge....”

Jeremiah’s body stiffened. Suddenly he felt as though the windows had been thrown open just as a cold breeze came in off the ocean.

There was a light touch on his arm, bringing with it an overwhelming feeling of dread. Instinctively he squeezed his eyes shut. The touch was repeated, this time more impatiently, and with a great deal of effort he regained control of himself and forced his eyes open. Lizbeth stood next to him; Lizbeth, as she had been at her very prime, before the wasting sickness took its toll upon her. She was nineteen, seemingly healthy, unbearably lovely, and yet somehow _flawed._ He could sense the corruption flowing under her skin. As she smiled at him prettily and stepped close, Jeremiah found himself backing away. He would do anything if those pale, tainted fingers did not touch him again.

“I have something for you,” his youngest sister said sweetly, and dipped a hand into one of the carefully hidden pockets in her elegant brocade gown. Behind them, still seated at the table, Bethany continued to recite; but now she was a twenty-nine-year-old woman with her red hair pinned up on her head, her lap empty. The room darkened as though a shadow had passed over the sun. Jeremiah shuddered uncontrollably and looked away, back to Lizbeth and the gift she held out.

A book. A familiar book with an odd Celtic knot worked into the dark, rich red cover. A book he had never thought to see again. Had hoped never to see again.

The sight of it forced him to shudder again, much harder then before. He did not want to touch that cursed book, did not even want to look at it, and yet there was nothing to do but take it. The only alternative was to leave it in his baby sister’s hands and that was hardly fair to her when he had been the one to get her into this mess.

Revulsion made his fingers try to curl into fists, but he took the book from her hands and was rewarded with her mocking laughter.

“Go now!” she commanded. “Go, and read the book...perhaps you’ll learn something.”

It shamed him, but he gladly fled. And behind him Bethany continued to recite:

“There was a Poet whose untimely tomb no human hands with pious reverence reared, but the charmed eddies of autumnal winds built o’er his mouldering bones a pyramid....”

***

He didn’t know how he got there, yet when he stopped running he found himself standing alone in the darkened smoking room. Breathing hard from exertion, Jeremiah slumped into the nearest armchair and laid the book on his lap, then felt about in the pockets of his robe for his pipe and the ever-present pack of matches. He lit one, touched it to the bowl...and froze.

In the flame’s brief life, he had seen something approaching him.

He was no longer alone in the smoking room.

It went against every instinct he had, required every ounce of courage he possessed, but he forced himself to drop the deadened match and to reach out with a shaking hand to the lamp sitting on the table next to him. He flipped it on and dim light flooded the room, allowing him to look at his companion.

Someone was making a strange whimpering noise. After a long, terrible moment, Jeremiah realized it was him.

His brother Aaron--at least Jeremiah _thought_ it had once been his brother Aaron; this ghastly sight seemed to have red hair and smelled faintly of paint mixed with blood and rot--stood next to the table. His skin was--there was no other way of putting it--almost completely _gone._ If he could, judging from the tortured expression on what remained of his face, he would be screaming...but someone had made sure that was impossible. Aaron’s jaw had been completely ripped out.

Jeremiah gagged and drew away from his brother, curling against the opposite side of the armchair. The too-sweet smell of lilac perfume came to his nose and turning his head he came face to face with Lizbeth. No longer the glorious sight she had once been, Lizbeth was clothed in the tattered remains of her favorite silk gown. Her once slim, manicured fingers had transformed into blood-encrusted claws. She was _covered_ in blood; it stained her chin and ran down her throat, onto the once-magnificent gown.

And as he watched, horrified, she laughed cruelly and touched his arm.

Finally recovering his senses, he tore away and tried to get out of the chair. But it was no use; he was practically paralyzed. All he could do was watch in terror as his brother Ambrose strode to Lizbeth’s side.

Ambrose did not seem to have changed as much as their brother and sister. His formerly long, well-kept hair had been cut brutally short and was now mostly tangles, and his skin had been deeply tanned. In one hand he expertly held a long axe. Seeing where Jeremiah’s gaze had settled, Ambrose smirked menacingly and ran his hand over the blade, drawing blood at the slightest pressure. Jeremiah shuddered and looked away, right into the cold, dark eyes of his sister Bethany.

Bethany, too, had not drastically changed. Clothed in a plain dress of dark velvet, her hair carefully secured on top of her head, she at first glance looked like the sister he’d seen safely off to London two weeks previously. And yet there was an expression on her face that her brother had never seen before: it was cold, calculating, and unbearably cruel. She stood before Jeremiah and smiled at him icily, and his blood ran cold.

“You cannot escape us,” Lizbeth cooed gently. “You have made your bed, Jeremiah, and you’ve avoided it for a time...but now you must lie in it.”

“I--I didn’t--” Jeremiah stuttered, trying desperately to explain to his family that he had never wished any of this upon them, that if he’d had any idea this would have happened he would have thrown the book in the fire. But the words stuck in his throat, and his siblings seemed unmoved.

“Didn’t what?” Ambrose snarled. “You read the ritual, you left us to suffer in your place! What else is there to say?” Glowering at Jeremiah, he went on: “Lizbeth, what was it the housekeeper used to say whenever we caused mischief and were caught?”

“ ‘They that dance must pay the fiddler,’ ” Lizbeth quoted.

“Exactly,” Ambrose said coldly. “We’re paying our share and it’s time for you to pay yours, big brother.”

Bethany sighed. “Oh Jeremiah, why couldn’t you have handled any part of this miserable affair correctly? First you had the brilliant idea to read the ritual, then to run from the consequences! And finally, just as I was on the verge of fixing your mistake, you had to come home and start asking questions. Couldn’t you ever have left well enough alone?”

“Of course he couldn’t have,” Ambrose snapped back. “When did our brother ever leave well enough alone? Or at least go in hunt of his answers without involving his family? Never! He always needed scapegoats and test subjects.”

Lizbeth reached down to stroke the pale dog-like creatures that appeared at her sides. “My babies and I will put a stop to that.”

Bethany chuckled and made an imperious gesture; in response she was instantly flanked by two veiled young women. Jeremiah found the courage to look at Aaron again and found that he was now accompanied by creatures: indescribably hideous monsters that were all teeth and claws and large, menacing eyes. Ambrose, too, had company: two pale, floating...things, mostly teeth, that snapped at Jeremiah when he looked at them.

There was no signal and yet they all closed in at once. Jeremiah was powerless to stop them as they tore at him with sharp claws and teeth, as Ambrose swung his axe freely and Bethany drew on her seemingly limitless knowledge of magic, hurling lightning bolts and dreadful chattering skulls at her helpless brother. Lizbeth’s cold laughter rang out over the macabre gathering and yet when Jeremiah looked at her, beneath the glee he saw nothing but unbearable pain. It was gone in an instant and, as if ashamed for revealing it, Lizbeth drew back and then dove at his throat--

***

Jeremiah awakened with a cry, his hands automatically flying to his throat only to find the skin smooth, intact. Stumbling from his bed he made it to his bathroom sink just in time to vomit uncontrollably. Then, sobbing quietly, he sank down on the floor and curled back against the wall.

_Just a dream...just a dream...._

But even as he thought the words, he was also thinking of that book, of the ritual he’d read at the Standing Stones, of what he’d awakened.

Even as he thought the words, he wasn’t so sure they were true.


End file.
